Do shut up, John
by Fayth3
Summary: Sherlock is very precise in his speech so when he accidentally lets something slip it's up to John to find out why. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

A.N- A little 3 part thing i cooked up when bored and taking cold meds. Unbeta'd because my usual beta is having issues of her own (i love you sweetie). So any mistakes are mine.

Also if you haven't already please head over to the SAMFA's and nominate some sherlolly writers and their fics. It's where I found my Sherlolly muse and deserves love just for that.

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Chapter 1

John Watson was well aware that his best friend was a bit of a git. In fact it was fair to say that, at times, Sherlock Holmes was a right bastard.

This would be one of those times.

A case of theirs had coincided with an ongoing investigation at Scotland Yard. However, this time, the lead in the investigation wasn't the affable, competent, Detective Inspector Lestrade, but the quite hostile Inspector Claude DeMille.

Sherlock had gone to the morgue with the express desire to see the remains of one of the victims. Inspector Claude DeMille refused to let a civilian near his case and was, reluctantly, backed up by Mike Stamford who was onto the second half of his double shift and wasn't in the mood for infighting, bickering or anything that didn't involve a feather mattress and a solid ten hours of sleep.

With the two of them against him it looked like Sherlock wouldn't get his own way and so Sherlock, with his amazing ability to annoy everyone around him, called Detective Inspector Lestrade.

DeMille hadn't taken that well and had cursed a blue streak at the Consulting Detective, ending up letting a torrent of swear words stream from his mouth.

Sherlock replied in French and then the whole thing descended into chaos.

DeMille's second in command, the ginger-haired Welshman Sergeant Alex Dimity, showed remarkable foresight and ingenuity by pulling a packet of Hobnobs out of his pocket and offering them to John and Mike as they watched the abuse fly back and forth.

"Thanks," John said amiably as they snacked. "This happen a lot?"

"Well," Sergeant Dimity said with his sing-song accent. "He's French, they are a bit fiery. He breaks into it all the time," he sighed. "It gets a bit tiring after a while to be honest."

"A Frenchman and a Welshman together?" Mike raised an eyebrow.

"I know," Sergeant Dimity grinned, "sounds like a bad joke doesn't it? But honestly I think I was the only one willing to work with him."

"Why's that?"

Sergeant Dimity gave him a look. "He's French."

John laughed. Personally he had no problem with the French, but then he had been a soldier and had realised that under the blood and uniform everyone was the same.

Except possibly the Belgians.

"Good point."

They watched as Sherlock started gesturing wildly, deducting the Inspectors habits, personality and defects. DeMille suggested Sherlock do something that wasn't possible without a pineapple and a vacuum.

Sherlock's reply made them all feel a little nauseous.

"Your boy seems to be holding his own." Dimity said with a mixture of respect and disgust.

"Oh, that's Sherlock for you. You know," John mused, "I think I could drop him in the middle of the Sahara Desert and he'd still manage to annoy someone. Probably a camel."

At least a camel wouldn't be able to arrest him, although John did wonder whether a night in the cells would be beneficial for Sherlock, it would teach him that he couldn't go around annoying law enforcement without repercussions

Although, now that he was thinking about it, Mycroft would never let his little brother spend a night in jail. For all that the two of them acted like worst enemies they really were protective of each other.

"I suppose we could step in a stop this." Dimity offered.

"Nope," Mike suddenly relaxed. " We don't have to."

The two men stared at him and he pointed to the door. "The Cavalry has arrived."

"Let's hear it for reinforcements." Sergeant Dimity said with a sigh.

The silver haired form of Detective Inspector Lestrade strode through the door with the heavy air of someone who was not looking forward to what would happen next. He probably felt less like reinforcements and more like the last line of defence against Holmesicide.

Lestrade headed straight for the slab, his hands in his pockets and a resigned look on his face.

"I was in the middle of a meeting, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yet you came."

"Yeah, well, I was told to stop disrupting the agenda. How the hell you got my phone to keep playing when I switched the bloody thing off I'll never know."

"That hardly matters. I need access to the corpse."

"And I said no. It's my case!"

"A fact which alarms me greatly, considering you have several unsolved open cases currently on your desk. Your interpersonal skills have resulted in two sexual harassment suits and a broken marriage, you can't stick to your diet and your dog has worms. You are hardly what I would call Inspector material."

Lestrade held up a hand as the Inspector pulled back his fist.

"Really, mate, as much as I'd love for you to plant him one, I can't allow it in front of me. Now if you want to jump him in an alley, that's fine by me."

DeMille bristled. "Just who does this jumped up little shit think he is? He is a civilian and this is a Police investigation."

Lestrade was rubbing his head with what they fondly referred to as a Sherlock-Headache. It involved a clenched fist, a rubbing of the eyes and a sudden desire for Vodka.

"Wrong, Mrs Aspen's husband hired me to look into her death. Since I am the one being paid, it's my right to be here."

"But not to have access to the corpse. Mr. Stamford even said so."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and looked up at the clock. "Ah but Mr. Stamford's shift is now at an end and I now have access."

They all frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

He just smirked as the door opened again. "Hello Molly."

Molly Hooper jumped and looked confused at seeing so many live bodies in her morgue.

"Uh, hello. What's going on?"

"Hello Molls," Lestrade said. "Nothing to be worried about."

"Right." Molly shrugged off her coat and hung it behind the door before picking up her lab coat and pulling it on. She gave Mike a baffled look and he gave Sherlock a long stare and then just shrugged.

"Sod it, sorry but I am too tired to deal with this crap. I'm off home."

"O-kay." She said hesitantly as he grabbed his coat and hurried out of the door.

"Coward," muttered Dimity.

"Just jealous," John said with a grin. He knew he was. If he had any idea that this evening would have turned into such a pissing contest he would have stayed home with a good book. But that was life with Sherlock for you.

Molly took a deep breath. "Now, what's going on?"

John looked around and realised that he was probably the best one to answer her. "New case clashes with Scotland Yard. Sherlock hasn't learned to share."

Sherlock bristled and gave John a glare.

"Ah." Molly was caught up. She gave the room a general smile before grabbing the file off the table.

She flicked through the chart. "Mrs Aspen." She read aloud.

"And who exactly are you?" DeMille demanded. "And where did Doctor Stamford go?"

Molly looked up. "I'm the pathologist in charge and Mike... well, I think he'd had enough. And you are?"

"I'm in charge of this case. This is my corpse and I don't need anyone to tell me that this bloody civilian can look at it. He can't."

Molly frowned and looked at Lestrade who just shrugged. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Well," Molly straightened, "technically now Mrs Aspen is under my jurisdiction. And as attending pathologist, I have the rights to say who is allowed access to the body."

John grinned. He really did like Molly Hooper. Well, the Molly Hooper she was when she wasn't blushing around Sherlock Holmes. She was a strong confident woman who just happened to have appalling taste in men.

"Look, just let him look at the corpse, I swear to you it's much less hassle." Lestrade said.

"No, I have no idea who any of you even are!"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Oh introductions; that's always fun. Fine. I'm Sherlock Holmes the world's only Consulting Detective. If you stopped interrupting me I could have solved this case already. This is Doctor John Watson my blogger. Detective Inspector Lestrade. This is Inspector DeMille- Scotland Yard's answer to Inspector Cluso. Sergeant Dimity, mildly less annoying than Anderson. And Doctor Molly Holmes, pathologist. Now can we please focus on the corpse?"

There was a moment of silence in which three people stared at Sherlock.

Sergeant Dimity bounced on his heels. "Nice to meet you all. Any relation?"

Sherlock eyed him. "What?"

"You two," he gestured between Sherlock and Molly. "Any relation?"

Sherlock frowned, "Why would there be-"

"Sherlock Holmes, Molly Holmes."

Sherlock looked like he'd been punched in the face. "Hooper, Molly Hooper."

"You called her Molly Holmes."

"I did not."

"Oh." Sergeant Dimity looked confused.

"Yes, you did," Lestrade was less confused and far more amused. He exchanged glances with John.

Sherlock glared at them both "No, I didn't."

"You did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did." Lestrade insisted with a smirk. "We all heard you."

"It's okay," Molly's face was bright red. "You misspoke. It happens. No big deal."

Sherlock pulled himself up to tallest. "I do not misspeak."

"No, you don't, do you?" John found a huge grin making its way across his face. He folded his arms across his chest, enjoying the way that Sherlock was avoiding everyone's eyes. This was gold. Pure gold. Sherlock Holmes embarrassed and trying to hide it. The blush that was hiding just under the collar of his Belstaff was worth every inch of annoyance this evening had dealt out.

As Sherlock cleared his throat and began to make deductions about the corpse Sergeant Dimity leaned in to John.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"Not at all," John beamed at him. "In fact, mate, I owe you a pint."

* * *

It was quite annoying that Sherlock turned out to be right. Again. No sooner had he examined the corpse than he had solved the murder.

Sergeant Dimity looked impressed, Demille looked murderous and Lestrade had simply looked exhausted and asked if he could go home now.

Sherlock shrugged once and exclaimed that he hadn't even wanted Lestrade there in the first place.

John, earning himself brownie points with everyone, suddenly realised that it would a good time for Sherlock Holmes to leave. He dragged him out of the morgue by the arm, throwing goodbyes over his shoulder as he went.

Once outside they hailed a taxi and slid inside.

"You didn't have to rub his face in it, you know," John said.

"Well, he was being very tedious. It was obvious that the killer was left handed by the attack marks and the lacerations on her palms. Added to the other evidence-"

"Her shoes and the fact that she ate thai food?"

"Yes. It was clear as day who the killer was."

John shook his head. No matter how often he heard it, he still marvelled at Sherlock's deductive abilities. He was equally blown away by the sheer arrogance of his best friend.

Speaking of.

"I'm surprised at you though, Sherlock. I thought you were big on manners and all."

Sherlock turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you didn't say goodbye or give her a kiss. You're gonna catch hell from the missus for that." John grinned at the clenching if Sherlock's jaw.

"Very funny."

"Oh right, girlfriends are not your area. Maybe you were thinking Molly and Mycroft?"

Sherlock recoiled."Don't be disgusting. " He turned to face the front of the taxi again. "Besides Molly has far too much sense."

"But no taste," John muttered. "So, come on, then. What was it? Were you making sure we were all paying attention?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Or does your mind palace have its own princess?" John chuckled. "It's just like a fairytale. Hooper and Holmes. Sherlock and Molly."

"Do shut up."

" Sherlolly."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, John."

"Oh, I think it's lovely. A modern day Beauty and the Beast."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "I hardly think calling me a beast is amusing."

John smirked. "I love how you automatically think Molly is the beauty."

The blush appeared under the collar again. "Shut up."

"I think it's great, Sherlock. My blog could do with a little romance."

Sherlock groaned. "Please stop."

"I don't know, Sherlock, I think the 'Consulting Detective and his Pathologist' has a nice ring to it."

"Sounds like a torrid romance novel." Sherlock scoffed, folding his arms over his chest in classic defensive mode.

"Doesn't it just?" John sat back. This was great. He could have month's worth of teasing material out of this. Maybe even blackmail material.

The two men sat in silence for a while in the back of the taxi just staring at the lights as they passed.

"Do... you think she minded?"

"Hmm?" John turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window, his head slightly ducked. "Molly. Do you think she minded?"

If it had been anyone else John would have said that they sounded shy, hesitant, almost wistful. But this was Sherlock.

"Being called Molly Holmes?" John shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "Why should she? It was an accident. It's not like you've ever thought of her like that really. And she knows it."

Sherlock traced a pattern on the window. "She does."

There was something in his tone that made John take a closer look. Sherlock was looking very casua, his words almost matter of fact. John knew that when Sherlock was truly disinterested in something he was very vocal about it. The fact that he was attempting to act casual meant that he was anything but.

"She probably hasn't given it another thought." John licked his lips, fighting back the grin.

"Good," Sherlock said quietly. "That's good."

John put a hand over his mouth, masking his smile.

Well, now this was interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

2

John sometimes thought that Sherlock Holmes needed a keeper. Well, actually, he thought that Sherlock needed a sedative... and maybe a leash but that was another matter completely.

It had barely been two days since their last case and Sherlock was driving him up the wall.

He'd been lying around in his ratty pyjamas and silk dressing gown, yelling at daytime television and making the flat look like an explosion in a mad scientist's lab.

John picked up something that might, at one point, have been someone's hand and placed it gingerly in the bin.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock yelled from his place on the sofa. "I'm testing the decomposition rates of infected flesh."

"Infected?" John looked down at his hand and shuddered, heading for the sink and the bleach he had started to buy by the bucketful. "Why in god's name are you doing that at the kitchen table?"

"Bored."

Of course.

John rolled his eyes. It was like living with five year old. A five year old with access to body parts, munitions and a centrifuge. Why he had decided that living with this madman was a good idea was beyond him. Especially now when all he wanted was a ham sandwich but he was loathe to touch any meat... well any_thing_ in the fridge in case he accidentally committed cannibalism.

It also wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had injected his food with something in the name of 'science'.

When he'd flat shared before he'd been worried about walking in on his flatmate naked, in the throes of sex or drug abuse or committing some sort of sin with an animal. He'd been worried about theft and accidentally rooming with a nutcase. He'd even worried about the levels of cleanliness approaching biohazard level and being arrested by the police.

He never thought that it would all happen in one go.

Sherlock really was a nightmare flatmate. His only redeeming features were that he was never boring and that John had never caught him mid-shag.

In fact, up until a few days ago, John would have said that Sherlock was not interested in the opposite sex. Or the same sex. Or sex at all.

Even The Woman had only aroused his intellectual interest. Sherlock had been intrigued by her and admitted such to John but he confessed it was more of an academic interest. He was interested in her sexuality merely because she utilised it as a tool in her own intellectual games. After he had deduced her, he found her as titillating as a jam sandwich. And _she_ was a dominatrix. If a woman who wore leather and threatened to spank you with a whip didn't turn you on then there was definitely something wrong with your radar. Or equipment.

Not that he was thinking about Sherlock's equipment.

John shuddered and wondered if pouring the bleach on his head would rid him of those images.

Probably not. He peered over his shoulder and scowled at the Consulting Detective who was sulking, his arms folded like a petulant toddler.

If only Molly could see him now.

The thought of the pathologist made the corners of his lips turn up as his mental meanderings returned to the topic in hand.

He hadn't really noticed any change in Sherlock's behaviour towards the sweet brunette until his 'slip'. Afterwards John had spent time thinking about it and had come to some startling realisations.

In three weeks he hadn't heard Sherlock deduce Molly negatively at all. In fact, twice now, Sherlock had 'absent-mindedly' thanked Molly for her services.

He'd also insisted that the flat was too nosy/ cramped/ dry/ ill-equipped and dusty for his experiments and that St. Barts was the optimum place for his work. Oddly enough, only during Molly's shifts.

And then there were the odd looks that he kept giving her and the fact that he'd called her Molly Holmes. Add them all up and John was coming to some pretty amusing deductions all of his own.

John cleared his throat. "You know, Sherlock, I've been thinking about what you said the other day."

"Good, I've already been using your clothing to test elasticity."

John gritted his teeth. "Not that. And you still owe me ten pairs of socks. I was talking about Molly Hooper."

Sherlock stilled and John watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock sat up slowly. "What about her?"

"Well, Molly is one of our greatest assets and it just occurred to me that it's been a while since she dated. Not since Moriarty really."

"What?" Sherlock's voice was low.

John bit his lip. "Just seems a shame that such a lovely girl is alone." He could see Sherlock stiffen even more.

"Maybe she likes it that way."

John scoffed. "No one likes to be alone. Molly would make someone a wonderful girlfriend or even wife. She'd be loyal and she's clever. She's also quite pretty. Yep, a man could do worse."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and then, through gritted teeth, he said. "You aren't her type."

"Beg pardon?"

"Molly. Her previous paramours have been tall, dark and intelligent. Ben was a surgeon, Grant was a photographer and Jim was a secret mastermind. You are not tall nor are you dark, and your intelligence is minimal at best."

John glared at his 'friend'. "Right, thanks very much. It just so happens I wasn't thinking about me. But don't get me wrong, Sherlock, I could pull Molly Hooper if I wanted to."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I _could_. But I wasn't thinking me."

"Exactly when did your sex change occur, John? I always assumed that it was only women who attempted to match-make and were obsessed with relationships. In fact, I would have assumed, given your general demeanour towards the opposite sex, that you are more inclined towards brief physical liaisons rather than anything meaningful."

John turned to face Sherlock. "Just because I enjoy female companionship doesn't mean that I wouldn't give it up if I found a woman who was right for me."

"Sentimental nonsense, John, there are over seven billion people on this planet, over half of them female. That is almost four billion women. If there truly is one 'right' woman, the odds of you actually finding her are exactly four billion to one." He lay back down on the sofa. "You'd have more luck winning the lottery."

John counted in his head slowly to ten. And then twenty. Then fifty just to make sure. "I said the right woman. I didn't say there was just one. Besides we weren't talking about me. We were talking about Molly Hooper."

"And I'm still not sure as to why."

"I've decided I'm going to help her find a nice man."

Silence.

"Someone who treats her right and makes her smile."

Silence.

"Someone who'll appreciate her odd humour and the fact that she dissects bodies for a living."

The word was spat out like a curse. "Why?"

John smirked. "Because what you said is true, she really does have awful taste in men. She needs a guiding hand. And I know just the man."

"Oh?" Sherlock turned over. "And who is the lucky man that gets the mousy pathologist who smells of formaldehyde, talks to corpses, has atrocious dress sense and can't talk to a man if her life depended on it?"

"Greg."

John counted silently for the explosion.

_Three, two-_

"LESTRADE?" Sherlock bounded out of his prone position. "Are you mad?"

"He's tall, used to be dark and, you've said yourself that he's the only intelligent one at the Yard. He also knows her, finds her funny and attractive and Molly has no problems talking to him."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times. "You are forgetting that he's married."

"Divorce came through last week."

Sherlock looked wrong-footed. "It did?"

John rolled his eyes. "We celebrated by going down the pub. I came back with a two day hangover."

"Is that what that was for?" Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't change the fact that he is still in love with his ex-wife. He would only hurt Molly."

John slipped his hands into his pockets. "Watch it there, Sherlock, it sounds like you care."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Whenever Molly is distressed, her work suffers. I merely wish to circumvent any plan which renders my pathologist useless."

"_Your _pathologist?" John was now grinning openly. "Staked a claim have you?"

"Oh, do shut up."

"First she's Molly Holmes and now she's _your_ pathologist. You know you always tell me that I see but don't observe. Well, I've seen you checking out Doctor Hooper and I observe that you fancy her."

Sherlock looked horrified. "I do not."

"Do too."

"You are being ridiculous. I don't do women."

"Which could be why you're always so tetchy. You really need to get laid.

"Don't be vulgar, John."

"Well, if you are not interested in Molly then you wouldn't mind if Lestrade asked her out, would you?" John faced off against Sherlock, his raised eyebrow almost daring the detective to make something out of this.

Sherlock opened his mouth once and then closed it again. "Of course not."

Challenge accepted. John nodded.

"I happen to know that Molly is very keen on the theatre. They're playing Phantom at the Playhouse. I'll tell Lestrade to get tickets. I know he's fancied her for ages."

Sherlock turned his back on John and headed back to the sofa, picking up his violin on the way.

"Fine."

"She told me once that she quite likes him too. Called him a silver fox."

Sherlock drew the bow over the strings with an evil hiss. "Lovely."

"Yep, they'd make a cute couple." John beamed as Sherlock faced the window.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."


	3. Chapter 3

3-

It was bound to happen eventually and John was more than pleased when it did. Sherlock had been rather unbearable these past few days, and that was even without John's incessant teasing. Of course the teasing had been railroaded when Sherlock had threatened to 'experiment' with his dinner again.

One LSD trip disguised as a ham sandwich was enough, thank you very much.

But now they had a case; a case which might necessitate them going to the morgue where a certain Molly Hooper would be gaining great pleasure dissecting bodies for money.

John grimaced. Putting it that way, even in his head, it sounded like a snuff film. He shuddered and tried not to think about how living with Sherlock Holmes had corrupted him.

He looked down at the corpse at his feet; Sherlock was doing his usual dance, looking for minute particles that would tell him the life story of the dead man. He'd dart from one end of the corpse to the other, his tiny magnifying glass in hand and his Belstaff swirling around him in a black whirlwind making him look like a demented Batman.

But then that made John Robin and he wasn't wearing red tights for anyone.

Sherlock made one of his 'aha' noises and John gave in. "Anything Interesting?"

"Oh yes." Sherlock slid his magnifying glass away. "Pretty intriguing. What are your thoughts?"

John knelt down and poked it. "It's a dead body."

"Your deductive processes never fail to amaze. Anything else Doctor Watson?"

John sighed. He was a little fed up of Sherlock insisting on him reeling off his thoughts, only to be told that they were totally wrong. "Male, late forties, been dead at least a week." He frowned. "Why did no one find him? This area is pretty well travelled. If he'd been dead a week then surely someone would have reported him."

Sherlock nodded. "Because he's only been there eighteen hours."

"Oh," John looked around. "So he's been moved here then?"

"No." Sherlock bounced on his heels with all the delight of a little boy. "He was killed here."

"No." John shook his head firmly. "Sherlock, this level of putrefaction means he's been dead at least a week. If he was killed here it wasn't eighteen hours ago, it was last week."

"I know!" Sherlock beamed and dived in his pocket for his mobile. He started to walk away from the crime scene, ignoring the detectives and sergeants who glared at him. John hurried to keep up.

"I presume there will something in his blood work which will tell us how he reached this advanced state of decay in such a short period of time." Sherlock's fingers flew over the keys of his mobile. "I've texted Lestrade who has had a sample sent to the lab. He'll let us analyse it."

He hailed a taxi and the two of them climbed in. "St. Barts."

The taxi took off and Sherlock returned to his phone, flicking through items faster than John could see them.

"It's all so fascinating, John, advanced putrefaction like that would require some sort of accelerant but there was no trace of it on the ground. There hasn't been any rain and, as you stated, anyone could have happened upon him in the last eighteen hours. This could take hours."

He grinned.

John frowned. Why was Sherlock so happy that this could take some time? Usually he wanted to solve the murder or the case quickly. He wanted to show off his-

Oooh.

John smirked. "Oh, I see."

Sherlock was so busy texting that he barely spared him a glance. "See what?"

"You're excited about going to see the missus. It's sweet that you want to spend hours showing off for her."

Sherlock's fingers froze and his voice was even icier as he replied. "You're not still on that."

John shrugged at the implied threat in his tone. "I've gone off ham anyway. Besides I found your secret supply of experimental narcotics."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "It was hardly secret then, if you managed to find it."

John wondered, not for the first time, how Sherlock had managed to make it intact to adulthood. Surely someone should have killed him by now. He thought longingly of the time Sherlock had asked him to punch him in the face.

Good times.

He dreamed about that punch, the satisfying crack of those perfect cheekbones under his knuckles and the satisfaction of shutting that mouth. He sighed happily.

Sherlock looked over at him as they got out of the taxi and headed towards the morgue.

"Are you thinking of dating again, John? May I remind you that your last attempt was the dreadfully dull barrister?"

John blinked, confused. "What brought that on?"

"You had the revolting smile on your face. We're in the middle of a murder which tends to leave you somewhat depressed and there are no nurses in sight, hence you are thinking of something that brings you great pleasure." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Process of elimination, you are thinking of dating."

"Oh good," John grinned widely, relishing his next few words, "but totally wrong."

Sherlock paused mid-step. "Wrong?"

John just nodded happily. He loved it when he got one over on Sherlock. It didn't happen often but when it did it was a sight to savour. "Yep, totally wrong this time. I wasn't thinking about a woman at all."

Sherlock frowned. "Really? Then what were you thinking about that made you smile?"

"Nothing much," John shrugged as they rounded the corner to the morgue. "Wait."

Sherlock stopped, peering down at his friend. "What now?"

"Didn't you want to do your hair, maybe flip up the collar, make yourself look presentable for Molly?"

John couldn't help the chuckle as Sherlock gritted his teeth, the sharp angle of his cheekbones emphasizing his annoyance. He gave his best friend one last glare and stormed off down the corridor, his Belstaff flapping behind him.

"That's right, she likes the sweep of the coat," John called.

Sherlock feigned deafness.

This was seriously the most fun he'd had in ages. Who would have thought that Sherlock Holmes was so very easy to tease?

John followed him into the morgue, feeling the sudden chill at the drop in temperature. How Molly didn't spend most of her time with a cold was a marvel. The woman herself was currently flicking over some paperwork, her brow furrowed.

"Hello Molly," John gave her a smile which was returned with interest as the sweet pathologist turned around.

"Hello John, Sherlock." Her smile got almost impossibly brighter. "How are things?"

"Excellent," Sherlock said quickly, apparently not waiting for John to start up banal pleasantries. "Do you have the samples that Lestrade sent over?"

"No," she replied with a frown.

Sherlock's expression darkened and John braced himself for an explosive diatribe on the utter uselessness of New Scotland Yard and the ineptitude of their police force.

Thankfully he was halted as the door opened behind them. A messenger boy stormed in and handed Molly an envelope before storming out again.

Molly ripped it open, read the enclosed note and pulled out the vials. "Yes, apparently I do."

She held the vials of blood up to the light. "Old blood, discolouration and coagulation. It'll take me a few minutes to set up the testing."

"No problem," Sherlock shot John a look before he headed over to a stool. "How are my cultures faring?"

"Fine," Molly said absently as she fiddled with a centrifuge. "Except the one that exploded."

"Really?" Sherlock perked up. "I wish I'd been here for that."

"So does the cleaner."

Molly was turned away but John caught the slight smile on Sherlock's face at her wit.

Aw, that was so sweet; Molly and Sherlock bonding over corpse humour. They really were all kinds of perfect for each other.

All they needed was a little push.

The consulting detective was not fooling him one little bit. John may not be most intuitive person in the world, he may not be able to deduce that a man was cheating on his taxes by the colour of his socks but he knew when his best friend was intrigued. He'd seen it in cases, in articles and now he was seeing it with Molly Hooper. Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off her, sneaking peeks at her through his lashes like a shy teenager. He found any excuse to go to Barts and he showed marked dislike of anyone else talking to her. He was intrigued, infatuated and in serious denial.

And Molly had come to the conclusion that he was simply not interested in her and so mistook all of the obvious signs.

So it was up to John to help these two to get their act together. John Watson matchmaker extraordinaire.

Molly reached for a microscope and hummed a little to herself.

Perfect.

"Nice tune, Molls," John said, "What was that?"

Molly blushed slightly. "_Que sera, sera_, I've had it stuck in my head all day. My dad used to sing it to me."

"Doris Day from _The Man Who Knew Too Much_." Sherlock said abruptly.

John blinked. "Trust you to know that one." The title was surprisingly apt for Sherlock Holmes. Of course it would have been better as _The Man Who Knew Too Much And Didn't Know When To Keep His Bloody Mouth Shut _but that probably wouldn't have done as well in cinemas.

"Mycroft was a fan of James Stewart and I enjoy Hitchcock."

And that really was their childhood in a nutshell, thought John, talk about a therapists dream.

"I was more into comedies myself, _Fawlty Towers, Red Dwarf, Steptoe and Son_. What about you Molly?"

"Didn't really watch much T.V." She admitted, "I always preferred to read. But I loved it when he got the day off and dad would take me to a show."

"Ballet? Plays?"

Molly nodded, a fond smile on her face. "We'd do Shakespeare and the Roman ballet and occasionally a musical."

"Never could stand musicals," John admitted, "people bursting into song at random moments sort of freaked me out. In fact I was never really one for the theatre. Or Shakespeare. Not like Sherlock. I bet he's been to every opera there ever was."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps. It is a mark of culture, John."

"Is there an opera on at the minute?" John said nodding towards Molly encouragingly.

"Probably." Sherlock just glowered at him, ignoring his prodding.

"Do you like opera, Molly?"

Molly shrugged. "Never been to see one."

"That's a shame isn't it, Sherlock?" John licked his lower lip. Sherlock said nothing and John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Really what was the man playing at, John was giving him plenty of opportunities to ask her out and he was dropping every single one. It wasn't like he didn't want to.

He stepped closer to Sherlock and poked him, inclining his head towards Molly.

"_Ask her_," he mouthed. But the consulting detective narrowed his eyes and focussed on his microscope. Stubborn to the last.

Fine. If that was the way that Sherlock was going to be then John was prepared to play dirty.

John grinned. " You know, I heard Greg was into theatre too."

Sherlock stiffened.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Molly sounded surprised. "I never would have pegged him for that."

"Not cultured enough?" John teased.

Molly giggled as she coloured. "Don't tell him I said that. I just pictured him more down the pub with a pint and some mates. Not sitting in the theatre watching a play."

"Even better," John leaned in conspiratorially, "he likes musicals."

"No!" Molly sounded scandalised.

"Molly, those samples aren't going to test themselves."

Molly almost jumped at the irate tone in Sherlock's voice. "Right, sorry."

She turned back to the samples and gathered some more testing equipment. In no time at all she had set up the apparatus and was peering into the microscope, making notations in her curly handwriting.

Sherlock was doing his level best not to look at her and was failing miserably. John leaned against the table and watched as Sherlock surreptitiously studied her from the corner of his eye.

He really failed at subtlety.

Give the man a murder and he was right at home, but stick him in front of a pretty, smart woman and watch him flounder.

"I think there is some sort of chemical in the blood," Molly said suddenly. "I'm not a toxicologist and most of whatever it is has been assimilated into the blood stream but the white cells are off and I'm getting some strange readings here." She bit her lip distractedly. "Once the body gets here I can examine the hair follicles to test for extended drug use and the stomach contents. But the preliminary findings are that a foreign substance was introduced to the victim."

Sherlock's usually blank expression had altered as he listened to her technical explanation and the glimmer of both approval and affection was evident.

Sherlock liked his women knowledgeable.

"Right, well someone should bring the corpse along shortly. If you could let us know the findings," Sherlock slipped off his stool. "We'll return shortly."

Molly nodded, too involved in her experiments to notice his slight pause. She was just like him in that respect, give her something interesting to look at and the rest of the world might as well not exist.

Her dismissal didn't sit well with Sherlock. He let his gaze drift over her and then opened his mouth.

John knew that he was about to make one of his scathing deductions in a desperate bid for her attention and that would never do.

Earning himself a dozen brownie points John cleared his throat and spoke quickly. "That is unless you're busy. Have you got something planned for tonight, Molly?"

Molly looked up at him with a somewhat sad smile. "Not really. I was hoping to finish early but it's okay. I don't mind staying."

"We do appreciate you staying to help us, don't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, staring down at the pathologist inscrutably. John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Right, well if this didn't push him into doing something then nothing would.

Three continents Watson pulled out his most charming smile.

"Honestly, I think that without you, Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve his cases nearly as quick."

Molly beamed at him even as Sherlock bristled. "That's a nice thing to say. I mean I don't do much but any help I can give." She giggled a little as her words mixed up. "I mean I'm happy to help."

"Oh, I don't know," John leaned against the desk, giving her a wink. "Sherlock refuses to work with anyone that isn't good top of their field, and even then he complains. The amount of time he insults Lestrade, you should hear him!"

"I have," Molly said, looking up at Sherlock through her lashes. "Quite often."

"But not you," John leaned over and poked her teasingly. "You, Doctor Molly Hooper, are exempt from the Sherlock rant. How do you do it?"

Molly shrugged one shoulder, a blush making its way across her face. She looked down at her paperwork, obviously unused to the attention.

John flicked his gaze up to meet Hurricane Holmes. If looks could kill John would be a scorch mark on the floor. He fought the urge to back-peddle and leaned further over the table.

"You have some serious skills, Molly."

She bit her lower lip and flushed prettily and John felt twin feelings of shame and pride. He didn't like to manipulate people as such but it was a good feeling to know that he could pull Molly Hooper if he tried.

Take that Sherlock Holmes.

He cocked his head slightly and lowered his voice. "You know, Molly. _Phantom of the Opera_ is being shown at the Mayfair."

"Oh?" Molly looked up at the sandy haired soldier, her doe eyes bright.

"It just so happens that-"

"I have an extra ticket."

The two of them looked up at Sherlock who was clenching his jaw. His hands were tight on the edge of the table, showing white knuckles.

"Pardon?" Molly blinked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I happen to have two tickets to the production," he glared at his friend, "perhaps you would care to accompany me?"

Molly stared at him. "What?"

"Would you like to go to the theatre?"

"With you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

Inner John did a dance of triumph. Outward John stood back, enjoying the show.

Molly turned to John. "I don't want to take your place if you were really looking forward to going. I have heard it's a brilliant production."

"First I've heard of it." John put his hands in his pockets, grinning widely.

"Oh." Molly looked confused. "Well, if I'm not taking up anybody's seat then I'd love to see it. I can pay you for the ticket."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "I didn't think that was standard procedure on dates although, admittedly, it has been a while since I have embarked on one. However, I am somewhat old fashioned, and do insist on paying for the evening."

"Date?" Molly's voice was faint. "You're asking me out on a date?"

Sherlock huffed. "I assumed that was implied."

"Not when it comes to you, besides you said 'Assumptions are the by-product of a lazy mind'." Molly reminded him, still looking like she couldn't believe her luck.

"So I did." He gave her an approving nod. "However not on this occasion. Would you care to accompany me to the theatre on a date, Doctor Hooper?"

"Yes?" She cleared her throat. "I mean yes. Thank you. I would. Most definitely. Yes."

Sherlock smiled. A genuine, smile without malice or insincerity. "Excellent. Perhaps when I return for the samples we can discuss it further."

"O-okay," Molly said in a haze.

"Then I shall see you later," his voice dropped an octave.

"Uh huh."

Sherlock and John left the morgue and the dazed pathologist and made their way through the hospital.

"See you later." John mocked, his tone as low as he could make it.

"Shut up."

"That has to be the poshest way I've ever heard someone ask anyone out. Ever. "_Care to accompany me to the theatre?" _What are we in, Downton Abbey?"

"Should I have said "_fancy a pint, love_"?"

John grimaced, Sherlock's cockney accent was grating.

"No, don't do that. Although I would have loved to see Molly's face if you called her that. Anyway I'm glad you finally succumbed to the inevitable."

"Molly and I were hardly inevitable."

"I was thinking about dating in general, but it's interesting your mind went there."

The slightest red tinge showed under his collar.

"Do you need dating advice?"

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed disparagingly. "If the endless parade of women streaming from your bedroom prove one thing, John, it's that, while you are undoubtedly good at attracting a woman- something that baffles me at times- you do not seem to be very proficient at keeping them."

John would have been insulted. Was insulted, in fact. But for one little thing.

"So you want someone who's good at relationships then? Are we perhaps planning on something long-term with Molly?"

The red tinge crawled up the side of his face.

"Molly _Holmes_ indeed."

"Hooper."

"For now." They continued through St Barts and into the taxi before John spoke again. "You know I expect to be best man."

"You are not the slightest bit amusing."

"I'll give a great speech." John ignored Sherlock, mapping out their wedding in his head.

"You're being tedious, John."

"Although you're on your own for the honeymoon."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope." John popped his P and then affected a solemn expression. "One thing though, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Hamish, it's a good boy's name. That's all I'm saying."

"Do shut up, John."

* * *

I'm going to apologise. I must have written and rewritten this last chapter ten times and it still doesn't feel right. But I wanted to move onto other things. Sorry if it sucks but sometimes the muse goes on vacation and takes your brain with it.


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